Magazine article Marketing

Advertising Drove Me into the Arms of My Big Bertha

Magazine article Marketing

Advertising Drove Me into the Arms of My Big Bertha

Article excerpt

I have decided where I want to die: precisely the same place in which Second World War flying ace Sir Douglas Bader finally met his Maker. You will know of course that this was not some unidentifiable spot above the English Channel, stricken, in a burning Spitfire - which would have been a truly appalling way to go - but in the bunker in the middle of the tenth fairway at Turnberry.

The tenth hole of God's own golf course is named Dinna Fouter, which is Ayrshire-speak for Don't Falter, meaning you have to thwack your drive with total confidence or your ball will clatter into the rocks, on to the beach and thence to the Firth of Clyde.

Sadly, our hero faltered here for the last time and never made it to the 11th tee. But what a place to go!

The Turnberry lighthouse, the brooding hump of Ailsa Craig and, beyond it, hilly Arran and the Mull of Kintyre: a truly grand scene.

History does not record whether Sir Douglas had a sharpener at the halfway house a few minutes before, but if I am lucky enough to snuff it in exactly the same spot I shall ensure that I have within me the warm afterglow of a Highland snifter.

I tell you all this because when I visit the sacred links on my annual pilgrimage with the same friends next month I will have no excuse for faltering at the tenth, or any other hole.

And it is all because I have finally succumbed.

As if eyeing the window of some delectable patisserie, for a year or two I have watched the ads for the Big Bertha Warbird driver every time I switched on Sky Sports. …

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